


Mania

by AgeOfAlejandro



Series: Only Moreso [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Self-Medication, Suicidal Thoughts, disturbing imagery, mental health stigma, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgeOfAlejandro/pseuds/AgeOfAlejandro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gets used to waking up and feeling sick with gritty eyes, gets used to seeing nasty bags under his eyes in mirror (he gets pretty good at covering them with makeup) and his limbs feeling like they weigh a metric ton and being barely in his control when he gets out of bed, gets used to minor hallucinations (little things in the corner of his eye, the occasional noise he knows isn't real).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple things: this is [](http://mortalfool.livejournal.com/profile)[**mortalfool**](http://mortalfool.livejournal.com/) 's [prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/3266.html?thread=2113474#t2113474) from [](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/profile)[**avengerkink**](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/) (the gist of which is "Tony is bipolar. Go!"). Tony has [type II bipolarism](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bipolar_II_disorder) (the lesser known version) and this is what happens when you put a type II'er on certain kinds of anti-depressants without the protection of a mood-stablizer. _Only Moreso_ is half of Mark Vonnegut's memoir's title, [_Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness, Only Moreso_](http://books.google.com/books?id=X2x2l3yRTOEC&printsec=frontcover&dq=but+more+so+vonnegut&hl=en&sa=X&ei=kuZ3T4LHCOKqiQK1nrSnDg&ved=0CDUQ6AEwAQ#v=onepage&q=but%20more%20so%20vonnegut&f=false), which is about surviving a much more difficult variety of the illness.

Tony figures out when he's twenty one that there's something wrong with him. Not the boatload of issues he has (though, oh god, is he ever aware of _those_ ), but something less related to his history and more related to his brain chemistry. He figures it's depression and in an effort not to be like his old man, who stupidly ignored his illnesses until they laid him out flat (even after the third heart attack and near liver failure, his father had still been smoking and drinking like a fish), Tony actually mentions it the next time he has a physical. The doctor nods, listened attentively, and prescribes him an anti-depressant. He makes sure he takes it, no matter what.  
  
  
At first, Tony just has trouble sleeping (he also has way more energy than usual and feels pretty awesome, which he takes to be a good sign). But over the course of a couple months, what he'll later label a mania builds up.  
  
Tony has never kept normal hours, not even as a little kid. He's pretty sure he isn't capable of it, actually, so the fact that he suddenly _can't_ sleep doesn't initially register with him. He spends a good four days awake without really realizing it (stopping only for coffee, meds, and food) and it's more out of I-just-finished-a-project-and-therefore-should-sleep habit that he collapses onto the cot he keeps in his workshop than any actual feeling of tiredness. He can feel the exhaustion settling in as he stretches out and lays down, settling heavy into his muscles as he waits for sleep to come.

And waits

And waits.

And waits.

 

 

Tony can sense the very edges of sleep, but nothing he does can coax it forward and he's becoming increasingly frustrated.

"JARVIS," he calls out eventually. "Time?"

"It is six fifteen pm," JARVIS informs him and adds, somewhat reproachfully, "on Thursday, June eighth."

Tony sighs. "When did I lay down?"

"Six hours ago, Sir."

He sighs again. "Fuck it," Tony announces as he tries to sit up. It's like his legs are made of wet cement, heavy and ungainly, he feels sick, and his entire body makes a burning protest as he heaves himself up. His knees almost give out and he wobbles like a new-born colt as he leans against the cot frame, trying to find his footing.

"Perhaps you might have better luck in your proper bed?" JARVIS suggests.

"No," Tony says firmly. "No, I'm going out. Call up Happy and have him be here in an hour." He's vaguely aware that JARVIS is chiding him gently and making more bed-oriented suggestion, but all his attention is on making it from his cot to the foot of the stairs that lead upward without incident. When he finally reaches the first step, Tony can finally spare his attention for JARVIS's 'but Sir, you haven't slept in four days' and slams his hand on the wall, snarling, " _Fucking. Call. Happy_ , JARVIS. I want him here in one goddamn hour."

"Yes, Sir," JARVIS says at last. "One hour."

Tony growls and makes his way upstairs to get ready. Maybe he can wear himself out with a companion or two.

 

 

 

Tony peels his eyes open, feel slightly better than he had before. One of his companions (Julia, he thinks?) shifts and nuzzles closer, and her opposite (Fern?) sighs against his neck; Tony decides that falling back asleep and maybe wake up sex are in order, so he sighs, too, closes his eyes, and tries to fall back to sleep.  
He can feel the frustration building up again and before long, he gives up and wiggles his way out from under Julia and Fern. Tony perches on the edge of his bed, rubbing his hands over his tired, gritty eyes. "JARVIS," he said softly, "Time?"

"Three twenty nine am," the AI responds quietly.

He glances over his shoulder at Julia and Fern and sighs. Three measly hours. He still feels a little sick, his muscles still burn a little, but at least he doesn't feel like he's half wet cement anymore. That's something, he supposes as he climbs to his feet. Maybe if he cooks them some breakfast, he can get laid when Julia and Fern wake up and send them on their way with a minimum of fuss.

 

After awesomely fluffy pancakes, they have sex again and the ladies are perfectly willing to leave without more than a kiss each ("Don't hesitate to call if you want another evening together," Julia says, pressing a paper with both their names and numbers into his hands and smiling at him coyly, as Fern leans against the door jamb to display her long, long legs). He gives them a roguish smile and ushers them out the door and into Happy's care.  
Perhaps he'll take them up on it, if they're willing to just be friends with benefits. Tony contemplates the media's reaction to his pretty arm candies, particularly if he can persuade them to kiss in public, and smiles.

 

 

Sleeping doesn't get any easier after his evening with Julia and Fern and Tony gives up on it almost entirely, collapsing when his body allows him to have a few hours' rest and tolerating the insomnia the rest of the time. He gets used to waking up and feeling sick with gritty eyes, gets used to seeing nasty bags under his eyes in mirror (he gets pretty good at covering them with makeup) and his limbs feeling like they weigh a metric ton and being barely in his control when he gets out of bed, gets used to minor hallucinations (little things in the corner of his eye, the occasional noise he knows isn't real). He tries to ignore the loud buzzing and rambling and cyclical, cyclical, cyclical, cyclical, never-ending noise inside his head, thoughts slipping through his fingers even as new ones appear, and the frantic, panicked feeling that there's not enough room in Tony's head for all of this.

But Tony does his father proud, the grin-and-bear-it routine coming to him easily as he ignores Pepper's worried looks and Obie's occasional frowns (he can ease Obie's frowns with awesome designs for super deadly weapons but can't do anything for Pepper, even though he wishes he could).


	2. Chapter 2

Rhodey is coming home! It has been way too long since his friend has been in the States, much less in Tony's company, and he greets the man on the airfield, practically bouncing as Rhodey descends the stairs.  
  
"Heeeey, hey Rhodey! Rhodey! How are you how was the trip how is the air force treating you wanna go out for a drink or have dinner at my place?"  
  
"Whoa," Rhodey says, eying him with a little concern and hoisting his bag to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. "Slow down. I'm good, the trip was fine, the air force is excellent if tiring, and let's go to your place for dinner. I'm sick of being in public."  
  
Tony grins. "Awesome! Let's go!"  
  
"Are you driving?" Rhodey asks, hurrying to keep up with Tony.  
  
Smiling, Tony nods. He knows how much Rhodey likes cars, especially beautifully sleek models like the ones Tony favors. "Of course! I brought the Lamborghini, just for you."  
  
Rhodey grins back. "Can I drive? Please?"  
  
Tony pauses, pretending to consider. "I don't know," he says, ignoring the way his hands want to shake with exhaustion even though he feels wired, and smiling when Rhodey gives him a knowing look (why else would Tony bring Rhodey's favorite car except to let him drive it?). "Well, all right. But be careful with her!"  
  
"She's a fine, fine piece of machinery," Rhodey replies, easily catching the slightly wild throw of Tony's keys and stroking the hood as he rounds with front of the car. "And totally safe in my hands."  
  
"It's been a long time since that little Toyota of yours from college," Tony agrees as he plunks himself down into the passenger seat. "I'm sure you've improved since then."  
  
" _You_ were the one who wrecked that car," Rhodey says pointedly as he starts up the engine and smiles as the car purrs to life, "I let you drive it to the grocery store off campus for ice and you managed to total it in a pond, somehow. I still don't understand how you did that one."  
  
"To be honest," Tony admits as Rhodey carefully backs out of the parking stall, "I had to diagram it to figure it out myself."  
  
Rhodey laughs.  
  
  
Dinner is a happy affair, made of take-out Vietnamese and catching up on each other's lives since the last time they saw one another (Rhodey has a girl named Emma, Tony doesn't one at all but he _does_ have a dozen girls' numbers, Rhodey still rolls his eyes at Tony's antics with amusement, and Tony still tells him he's no fun without meaning it). Drinks follow dinner and Tony relaxes a little, and _he can focus_. He laughs when Rhodey tells a good story about his CO.  
(Tony doesn't tell him about the meds. He hasn't told anyone, not even Pepper. He remembers the way his father had talked about people who took meds; he thought they were weak and violent and stupid, and Tony's perfectly aware a significant portion of the rest of the world agrees. Tony knows Rhodey thinks so, too, based on a few things he said when they were in college and he doesn't want Rhodey to think of him that way. To be sure, Tony's weak, but he's not violent or stupid.)  
  
  
Rhodey only stays three days before he's back on duty and Tony drives him back to the airport, waving goodbye as his friend climbs aboard a plane and departs for his next assignment. On the way home, Tony takes a tall, sharply curved overpass from one freeway to the other and thinks for an instant what it would be like not to follow the bend. He imagines his car going over the rail, breaking through the cement and soaring over the neighborhood beneath, he imagines landing, the way his bones would break and the car would leak fluid, the way it would mingle with his blood as it dripped into the grass of someone's lawn. He imagines fire, explosions, and the sound of distant, wailing sirens.  
He turns to follow the road, drums his fingers on the steering wheel, and wonders why that idea doesn't scare him at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
Tony hates board meetings he thinks as he idly clicks a pen, smirking when he notices a board member glaring at him. He has to come back to New York (which stinks of cold and of his father) when he'd really rather be in (warm, ghostly-father-free) California. Tony would like to find the person who convened the first ever board meeting and strangle them. Briefly, the image of his hands clamped around an anonymous purpling neck and frightened bulging eyes pops into his head and he blanches. That's not who he is. It isn't. He's not the kind of person who goes in for casual violence, who would do that kind of thing. Tony swallows, roiling with self-loathing and wonders what the fuck is wrong with him as he turns to survey the rest of the room.  
  
He notices Obie and a couple others looking at him carefully and imagines the picture he must present: pale, anxious, and jittery. He puts down the pen and gives them his best winning smile, steadying himself through sheer force of will. The board members look mollified and turn their attention elsewhere, but Obie studies him a little longer. He frowns faintly but looks away.  
  
  
  
Tony is out like a shot the second the meeting is over, with Pepper trailing behind him. God he needs a drink. And lay. Pulling out his phone, Tony scrolls down in search of Julia's number when he hears Obie calling his name.  
  
"C'mere," Obie gestures, pointing to a break room.  
  
Tony hesitates briefly, but dutifully follows Obie into the room as the employees stream out. It's the least he can do for the guy, since he's been there whenever Tony needed him (to the point he's practically Tony's father). Pepper lingers at the door for a moment before being dismissed by Obie as the man settles against the counter.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asks Tony, cocking an eyebrow. "You were looking a little green earlier."  
  
"I'm fine," Tony says as he leans against the fridge next to Obie, welcoming the cool that bleeds through his suit to his over-heated skin. "Just tired."  
  
"You look it," the other man agrees. He pauses and studies Tony again, "You aren't doing drugs, are you?"  
  
"No." Tony shakes his head. He's done some of them, he likes the way they make him feel (except coke, because coke sucks), but he thinks of them like a special treat. A reward for not exploding on someone after a particularly trying day with the R &D department or a media fiasco. Not something he does more than a couple times a year, because then it's not a reward anymore. It would be just punching holes in his brain because he's addicted and that would suck. "I'm not sleeping well, that's all."  
  
"Ah," says Obie and awkwardly pats him on the shoulder. "Well. I always found brandy before bed to be a good cure for insomnia."  
  
Tony nods and pushes off the fridge. "I might try that. Anything else?" he asks.  
  
"No," Obie says. "Go back to California and be productive, ok?"  
  
Tony smiles and gives him a nod. "I'll send you designs soon."  
  
  
  
  
When he gets home to Malibu, it occurs to Tony that he hasn't slept in about four days and he can feel the frantic energy swirling through him. He wants to scream and shiver until it stops, he wants to run until it goes away, he wants to peel off his skin and bleed it out.  
He can't. So he does the next best thing and paints the town red.  
  
  
The club is loud, the dancefloor is packed with the young and beautiful, and the bar is bustling. It's perfect, Tony decides as he grabs a drink and gets on the floor, relishing the press of the crowd as he looses himself in the music. Before long he has an armful of gorgeous women and then a lapful of them when he retreats to a couch. They kiss and touch him and ply him with drinks, and it distracts him from the energy still buzzing inside and the frantic pressure in his head. He loves it. He takes three of them home and sleeps all of four hours after three rounds of energetic sex. He's still drunk when he wakes up and stumbles into the shower, where he collapses against the wall and barely restrains the urge to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony's uncertain how long it's been since he slept, nor does he really know how much he's drank thus far but he _does_ know that it's blissfully quiet inside his head for once. And that is worth more than his entire fortune, he thinks as he takes another drink and sprawls out a little further on the floor of his living room. His thoughts hazily turn to the pros and cons of making vodkafied gummi bears. He hasn't had those in forever and they are delicious, but they take so long and Tony wants his booze-candy _now_. He should have someone for that. Why doesn't he already have someone - a chef or whatever - who specializes in booze-candy? Oooh, he could invent something to make it, too! Tony smiles to himself, takes a long pull from the tequila he's working his way through, and schematics start to unfold in his head.  
  
"Tony?" a muffled voice calls. "Tony, where are you?" It's Pepper and he wonders if he can hide from her by pretending not to be home.  
  
"He is in the living room three doors down and to your left, Miss," JARVIS informs her, (probably) purposefully making sure Tony can hear it.  
  
 _Traitor._ Tony makes a brave attempt to sit up, feeling the world spin wildly as he does so. He's forced to drop the bottle so he can plant his hands on the carpet, desperately hoping it'll make the world stand still. It doesn't; his carpet soaked in tequila again and the thump of the heavy glass handle on the ground confirms his presence. Fuck. His. Life. Tony crawls, hoping to at least get to the couch in time to save his dignity. There's also several more bottles at hand on the side table and more alcohol sounds like a really good idea right about now.  
  
He hoists himself up and snags a bottle of scotch just as Pepper pokes her head into the room and sighs. "Oh Tony," she says and wends her way through the glass forest that has sprung up on his floor over the last two weeks, carefully stepping around the sticky spots of dried booze. Distantly, it occurs to Tony he's going to have to have the room recarpeted if he ever wants to entertain in his favorite living room again. "Haven't you had enough to drink?" she asks gently, reaching for the scotch.  
  
"No," he informs her, enunciating as carefully as he can and clutches the bottle tighter, curling it close to his chest. "I haven't."  
  
Pepper sighs and perches on the sofa next to him. "When was the last time you ate? Or slept?"  
  
Tony eyes her warily. "I don't know. Why?"  
  
"When did you have your first glass?" she says instead of answering.  
  
"Today? Or since the last time I saw you?"  
  
Pepper searches his face for a moment, and Tony becomes aware that he's a total mess - he hasn't bathed in a while, he has no idea where his pants are, and he's wearing the same dress shirt from a week ago, which is now stained with fluids Tony doesn't care to think about. He doesn't even want to think about how tired he must look.  
  
"You've been drinking since then, haven't you?" she says eventually. Pepper sounds tired and sad and Tony hates it when she sounds like that because of him.  
  
"No," he lies, vainly hoping she'll buy it. "I...I just got caught up in the lab and you know how I am."  
  
Pepper, poor Pepper who knows him entirely too well, sees right through him (would see right through him even if he weren't three sheets to the wind right now). "I do know how you are," she says and puts a hand on his wrist. "I do. And I worry about you, Tony. You've been so erratic lately and your drinking has gotten ou--"  
  
"I know," Tony interrupts, playing with the peeling edge of the label instead of looking at her. "I know how I've been. And I'm sorry. But it makes the noise stop."  
  
"What noise?" she asks, her eye brows creasing together with worry.  
  
"It's too loud -- in my head," Tony says by way of explanation and taps his temple with a spare finger, nearly smacking himself in the face with the bottle. He's aware he's being too honest, but it's not his biggest secret at least. "And this makes it stop." He realizes he's perilously close to telling her about the meds.  
  
"Go on," Pepper says, looking at him with a mixture of emotions Tony's too drunk to identify properly.  
  
He can feel the words 'I am on medication for depression' burgeoning on his tongue, so close, so close, he's so close to telling Pepper about them. About his secret. He wants to, desperately because _Pepper fixes everything and maybe Pepper can fix me_. But he burdens her with constantly needing her to fix everything else in his life because he's too stupid to manage it on his own, and he doesn't want her to think badly of him like he knows she will. Like everyone will, if they find out. So he stops, shakes his head and bites his tongue. "Nothing. Just -- nothing," he says and reaches for the blanket folded over the back of the couch, suddenly noticing how cold the room is.  
  
"No, Tony, it's obviously not 'nothing'!" she says loudly before she stops, sighs, and says more quietly, "You're trying to crawl into a bottle to deal with it - that makes it the very definition of not 'nothing.'" Pepper reaches for the scotch again.  
  
"No, goddamn it, Pepper!" he snarls, the world snapping into focus with avengeance, "it's nothing! Nothing for you to worry about, ok?" He's angry now, so angry that he doesn't care when she pulls away like she's been burned.  
  
She gives him a hurt look. "Tony, I just worry abo--"  
  
"Leave it," he growls. "Leave it alone - leave _me_ alone. I'm fine. I've been taking care of myself since _you_ were in booster seats and I don't need you to look after me."  
  
Moodily, Tony ignores Pepper, who looks at him quietly for a long moment. Pepper gets up. Pepper leaves. Pepper doesn't say good bye as she closes the door. He tells himself he doesn't care and takes another drink.  
  
  
Thirty minutes later, Tony starts seizing and blacks out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Awareness drifts in. He's chilly, there's something cold stuck up his nose, his arm kind of stings, and there's an obnoxious beeping somewhere to his right. Irritated, Tony opens his eyes and looks around, and a) concludes, fuck, he's in the hospital and b) sees Pepper sitting in one of the chairs next to his bed. She doesn't say anything as they stare at each other and as he reaches to pull the cold thing -- he glances down and discovers it's an oxygen tube -- out of his nose. He gets the idea that she should be -- and would be, usually -- stopping him from doing that but she doesn't. Pepper's eyes are almost unreadable, only hinting at what she's feeling (it's pain from what he can see), and that sets off klaxon warning bells in his head.  
  
"What did I do?" he asks her as he drapes the tube over the rail. Tony distantly notes his head is clear for once, the noise between his ears at a manageable level.  
  
"Gave yourself alcohol poisoning," Pepper says, her voice crisp, the way it only ever is when she has to deal with gossip reporters who want to know if Tony's really fucking some starlet or not (he usually isn't).  
  
"Ok," he says, contemplating whether or not yank out the IV making his arm sting. "Good to know. But what did I do to you? I'm pretty sure I did something, because otherwise you'd probably be jamming the oxygen tube back in my face instead of letting me take it out."  
  
Pepper looks like she's thinking about explaining, but ultimately chooses not to. Instead, she gets up and reaches for her purse. "I have to make a call, Mr. Stark. I promised Mr. Stane I'd let him know when you came to."  
  
  
Oh, did Tony _ever_ fuck up.  
  
  
  
  
It takes Obie bullying his doctor and bribing the hospital to get Tony out in what he considers a reasonable amount of time -- which is to say he's been awake for two days and he's climbing the walls ("You _seized_ ," his doctor snaps as an insistent administrator presses a clipboard with Tony's release papers into his hand. "You almost _died_! You should be here for a couple more days at least!").  
  
When he gets his hands on his hospital records, Tony is glad to find that they didn't run an in-depth blood test on him. He doesn't know if that should have been standard procedure and they fucked up, or if it's not and he's being paranoid. Either way, his secret is safe and he breathes out a sigh of relief as Obie drives him home.  
  
"You sure scared that little girl of yours," Obie says as they turn on to Tony's long driveway. "She was crying when she called me after they loaded you up into the ambulance."  
  
Tony grimaces. "She's my PA, not my girl. But yeah, I noticed."  
  
"I don't think she'd say no," Obie says with a leer and Tony finds himself feeling proprietary. He may not be trying to sleep with her these days but Pepper's _his_ , not Obie's. "You should look into that."  
  
"I think I'll be looking into making peace with her," Tony replies, looking out over the sun-gilded Pacific and watching the bird weave and dive over the sea in the dying light. "Pepper's the best PA I've had and I don't want to have to replace her." There's more to it than that, but Obie has always been one to keep an arm's distance between himself and 'the help' (unless they're hot, in which case Obie is all in favor of removing both distance and clothing); he tends to sneer at Tony when he doesn't keep servant-master style distance. Tony doesn't -- can't -- think of Pepper as 'the help' -- yeah he's her boss, but he thinks of her more like a friend, so he never talks about it to Obie.  
  
The man laughs. "I believe in striking while the iron -- or the girl -- is hot, but she's yours, Tony. Not mine."  
  
Tony almost tells Obie _she's my friend - not what you think she is or should be - just my friend_ , but doesn't. Instead he turns to shop talk, catching up on what he missed and how the investors responded to finding out Tony had been hospitalized (Obie has played it off as a youthful accident, and Tony is quite young so the investors were letting it slide).  
As they pull up to Tony's door, Obie adds, "Try not to poison yourself again, ok?"  
  
Tony nods and gives him a smile as he climbs out of the car. "I'll be a good boy, I swear."  
  
Obie gives him a fatherly sort of smile in return. "Good. Go be busy."  
  
Tony's lips quirk up in a smile. "I will."  
  
With that, Obie drives off, leaving Tony in front of his home alone.  
  
  
  
"Good evening, Sir," JARVIS greets him when Tony unlocks his door. "Miss Potts wished me to inform you she took the liberty of having the mess dealt with and the west living room re-carpeted."  
  
"I owe her, like, ten pairs of the nicest shoes money can buy," Tony mumbles to himself, resting his head against the door after he locks it behind himself.  
  
"Quite probably," JARVIS chimes in.  
  
He grunts in reply and heads upstairs. Shower, meds, peace offering to Pepper, and work. That sounds like a place to start, he decides.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Pepper takes three weeks to accept Tony's apologies, even though they both know Tony's slipping right back into the same behavior pattern as before, minus the constant drinking. Tony never wants Pepper to walk in on him seizing and never wants to say those kind of things to her again. She deserves better.  
  
But the insomnia returns. So does everything else - the hallucinations, the horrible pressure in his head, the electrical current running under his skin that he wants to scratch out, the sudden and violent urges that leave him hating himself, and every other nasty thing he'd started drinking to escape.  
He asks Pepper to get rid of all the alcohol in the house. She doesn't ask why and he's so grateful he could cry.  
  
  
  
  
"Oh hey, Tony," Julia says, bracing herself against the dash and her seat as Tony takes a sharp curve at high speed. "Could you slow down? Please?" She squeaks when the road switchbacks suddenly.  
  
"Relax, baby," he says, gunning the engine just to scare her. "I know the road and this car's perfect." He's feeling a little nasty today. Julia's gorgeous, true, and also smart, but after spending a couple days with her out of town, everything about her is starting to grate on his nerves. The way she moves, the way she talks, the way she clings in her sleep (preventing him from getting _any_ , even though he could feel the precious edge of it in his grasp). All of it. And he wants her to know.  
  
"For my peace of mind?" Julia says, and it's one shade away from pleading.  
  
Tony decides he's probably frightened her enough and relents, driving at something approaching a sane speed. "Happy?"  
  
"Yes." She doesn't talk very much between then and time he drops her off at her place. Tony doesn't think she'll be calling him and he knows he won't call her. There, he says to himself. That was easy. He turns around and high-tails it out of her neighborhood, roaring down the street entirely because he can and he's still feeling vicious.  
  
  
  
The drive between Julia's house and Tony's is not terribly long by California standards -- only an hour or so -- even though Tony tends to take the back way as much as he can. He's tired and he doesn't have a distraction anymore so he slows down, dropping from ninety miles per hour to seventy. Which is still speeding (meaning Tony still feels like a true Californian), but it's much slower and more manageable after a couple hours of ninety-plus. He checks his review mirrors and sees a black hummer gaining on him and hummers are _asshole_ cars, so he can't let that stand. He watches the hummer out of the corner of his eye, slows down to below the legal limit, lets it come even with him, and then Tony floors it.  
  
He doesn't see the semi in front of him until the peddle is on the floor and time stands still, his focus snapping to the trailer he's about to ram himself under. The air leaves his lungs as he realizes there's nothing he can do, it's too late, oh god this is worse than his _father_ who at least had the excuse that he was drunk when he--


	4. Chapter 4

"What the _hell_ has been going on here lately?" Obie demands, looming like an angry god over the sofa as he drops a blanket on Tony's lap. "Hospitalized _twice_ in the last two months for stupid stunts? Do you have a death wish, Tony?"  
  
Tony picks miserably at a loose thread in his blanket. His cast is itchy and his broken collarbone is making him feel nauseous.  
  
"Well?" Obie demands. "Do you? That was not a rhetorical question, Tony, because it's a fucking wonder you _didn't_. They had to get out the jaws of life to get you out of the wreck."  
  
"No," Tony says quietly, uncertain if he's grateful or not for the fact that Obie waited until Tony was released to do this.  
  
"Then what's been going on here?" Obie asks, dropping down next to Tony's uninjured knee on the sofa. His voice is gentler, coaxing.  
  
"Nothing," Tony says. Nothing he wants to tell anyone about, anyway.  
  
"It's not 'nothing'," says Obie. "It's definitely something, in fact. Tell me." When Tony shakes his head, Obie says, "C'mon, you can trust me. It's not drugs, right? I know you said you weren't doing them, but Tony, if it is, we can get you to, like, the Betty Ford clinic and it'll be ok after you get out of rehab."  
  
"It's not drugs." Tony sighs. "I don't know what it is." He carefully rests his head back against the arm of the couch and ignores Obie's hovering, searching for patterns in the last few months. When was he clearheaded? When was he not? Aside from drinking, what could be the factors?  
  
"Tony?" Obie asks, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "How could you not know?"  
  
"It's complicated," Tony replies, not making eye contact with the other man as he thinks. And reaches a conclusion. Tony huffs out a sigh, wondering if he can tell Obie and not be judged for it. Obie's different than the others -- Tony could call Obie 'dad' and not really be lying (although Obie himself would probably object to it). He was there for Tony's graduation from MIT, he was there when Tony's parents died, and myriad other occasions that are supposed to be attended by family. Shit, Obie had gone to his little league games and swim meets and judged at his debate tournaments sometimes. Tony's actual dad was too busy and didn't care enough to show up for anything, unless it was something he made Tony do (in the rare instances of him paying attention to something besides whiskey and work) and there were awards or publicity involved (because god knew that's all his father thought Tony was worth).  
  
"Well?" Obie says, a hint of both command and demand in his voice.  
  
Tony looks at him and decides to take the plunge. "I think that it might have been the meds I've been on."  
  
"Meds? Like painkillers?" Obie's expression is calculating, probably figuring out how much damage control will be needed. "Popping pills is still drugs, Tony."  
  
"Not painkillers," Tony replies. "An anti-depressant."  
  
"What?"  
  
Tony's never heard quite that tone from Obie before and it sets him on edge -- the last time he heard something that even sounded similar, Obie had gotten the deal of the century in a merger. But this was _Obie_. "...I thought I might be depressed and mentioned it to Doctor Santam, who prescribed me something."  
  
"And that went well, didn't it?" Obie asks sardonically. There's something disgusted in his eyes and Tony starts to feel nervous, watching Obie with wide eyes as he leans over, and Tony, who has never felt threatened by Obie in his entire life (as opposed to his father, who was Threat itself), feels his anxiety ratchet up when Obie looks at him like he figured his father might if he knew about the meds. "Let me tell you something, Tony. Everyone feels blue now and then, but only the weak -- the attention starved weak -- need _medication_ to get out of a funk."  
  
"It wasn't just a funk," Tony says defensively. "It was a full year, Obie, of misery and it wasn't the first time."  
  
"Your parents had just died, Tony," Obie replies. "That's all. Lingering sadness that turned into a funk."  
  
"They had died a full year _before_ the 'funk' as you insist on calling it, set in. I had been mostly over their deaths by that point and then," Tony mimes a swooping drop with his hand, "it got awful. I tried to make it better - got out in the sun more, did things I used to enjoy, and stuff, but it didn't work."  
  
"A funk," Obie repeats. "It was a funk. Unless you _are_ that weak?"  
  
Tony's jaw clicks shut. "Fine," he grinds out, weary and hating that he was right about the way people -- even Obie apparently -- would see him if they knew. "A funk.  
  
"Good boy," Obie says brightly and pats his knee. "I knew you could do it. I'll send in your girl to take care of you soon -- you're going to have to deal with the media this time, by the way, because I am done fishing your ass out of the fire -- and you may want her to call your publicist for you."  
  
"She's not my girl," Tony mumbles as Obie leaves, trying to ignore how badly he wants to crawl into a hole and die.  
  
  
  


  
  
This why he never tells anyone anything, Tony thinks as he dumps the remainder of the pills in the toilet and flushes. It always come back to hurt him. As he dumps the bottle in the trash, he wonders how he let himself forget.


End file.
